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iDoets and Butbors' Club 



of Colorado 





LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 




Chap...\._^ Copyright No._._ 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



DtC 



14 



\b9» 



UEC 14 1898 



An £vening 

witb the 



Ipoets and Hutbors^ Club 
of Colorado* 



^ 



CHRISTMAS EDITION. 
1898. 



.36 



( Copyrighted. ) 






23099 



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^ V^»c:>C 



72860 DEC M 1898 



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•<.S 






PREFACE. 

In presenting this Booklet to the public, it is 
not the object of the members of the 'Toets and 
Authors' Club" to pose as artists, but simply to 
show what we are trying to accomplish in the line 
of original work. 

These stories and poems were not designed to 
appear in a collective form. But the subject matter 
is as it was given during an ordinary evening's 
program. 

Respectfully submitted, 

IDA L. GREGORY, 

President, 



CONTENTS. 



Our Christmas Greeting. 

Colorado, 

Mary Morris (A Life Sketch), 

Phenomena, 

Our I^ittle I^ad, 

The Muffler, 

Thrushes, , - 

Thrums, 

To My Friends, 

Snow, - - - 

The Unrecognized, 

A Dream, 

An American Iviterature, 

To Allie — in Heaven, 

An Autumn Reverie, 

Lyndona, 

The Unmasking of a Saint, 

lyove! What Is It? 

Wild Flowers of Summer, 



BlvKANOR Fui<I,KRTON 

Ida Iv. Gregory 

NoRRis C. Sprigg 

B1.IZABETH M. Weatherhead 

AI.ICE POIyK Hii,i, 

H. Iv. Wason 

H. Iv. Wason 

Mrs. R. B. B. G11.1.ESPIE 

J. A. V. Price 

Mary W01.FE Dargin 

Frederick A. Johnson 

Myron W. Reed 

Orro Hai^i, 

Cora Townsend McNerney 

K1.1.A Randai.1, King 

Marguerite Zkaring 

Amanda Kerr Lewis 

JU1.1A A. Wansey 



The Incarnation (Story of the 16th Century), Geo. W. Cox 
Stephen A. Douglas, - - Chas. W. Bigei^ow 



{jdT (jiristroas (greeting. 






{^* {^W ^» 



NCE more we're in the Christmas tide, 
As for many centuries past, 
And floods of memory rash along, 
While the years roll by, so fast. 



The Christmas tide with meaning grand, 

From old Judea's plains. 
Where wandering shepherds stood spell-bound 

By sweet angelic strains. 

And still, upon our listening ears. 

There falls the sweet refrain, 
"Peace and good will" from God to man. 

As on that star-lit plain. 

Ideal still, that pure, sweet song. 

Breathed forth by angel band: 
For selfish greed and cruel war, 

Drive * 'Peace" from every land. 

But yet from friend to friend is passed, 

The happy season's gift — 
These dear remembrances of love 

Oft clouds of sorrow, rift. 

From Colorado's sun-kissed plains 

And hoary mountain peak, 
Sweet messages and gladsome strains 

Her childrens' voices speak. 

5 



(olorado. 



®FAIR young State, facing the grand to be, 
With shining eyes that flash with sense of power, 
O'er sunlit peaks, and canons wild and free, 
Thy throbbing heart doth beat from hour to hour, 
With hopes and aspirations, that do tower 

Above thy sisters — though so youug thou art. 
Thy beauty's fame, the richness of thy dower, 

Hath brought from lands and nations far apart. 
Thousands, who coming, nestle to thy heart! 

Because thy sapphire skies hath smiles for all 

Thine air gives life, thy boundless prairies room. 
Deep in thy mountains' heart, where shadows fall, 

Ivie hidden treasures, waiting in the gloom. 
For willing hands to take thy wild flowers' bloom. 

And deck with dainty tints, the hills and dales. 
Thy dawns, and golden sunsets all, illume 

With glory earth and sky ; Italia pales 
Before the glowing radiance that prevails . 

And thy fair cities! See where proudly stands 

The Queen! her fanes and towers of stately height 
Uplifted to the blue! From many lands 

Have come the eager throngs, alert and bright, 
That crowd her busy marts, the radiant light 

Of youth doth shine, they onward long to press 
With thee, ^^oung State — a land of pure delight 

To make thee, so that from the wilderness 
Fair homes may blossom, all the world to bless. 

Bl^EANOR Fui,I.KRTON. 



JVlaraJVIo! 



orris. 



(A Life Sketch:) 

IT was in the year that Sumpter was fired upon, 
that there lived in a small village in South- 
western Missouri, the family of John Morris. 
He was a brave, sturdy man of the pioneer type, 
who had left his old home in Kentucky some eight 
years before, and brought his bride to this wild and 
beautiful spot. By perseverance he had established 
a good business, and life seemed expanding daily 
into fine possibilities for the sturdy carriage-maker 
and his little family. 

All day long the busy wife worked to the tune 
of the anvil and hammer, soul-stirring to her as 
martial music is to the soldier. Well she knew that 
plain and homely lives like theirs contained love 
and contentment. 

The scarlet rambler that she had brought from 
the old home, a tiny slip, now covered the little 
porch and peeped in at the window, its delicate 
green leaves just beginning to unfold in the warm 
April sunshine; and John's favorite flower, the old- 
fashioned spice pinks, that bordered the walk to the 
spring, were full of buds. The birds sang as they 
flitted from tree to tree, and the peacefulness of 



* 'Acadia" seemed to have settled over the little 
valley. One day, news of Sumpter came. War 
was declared, and the call for volunteers sounded 
throughout the land. 

John Morris was among the first to respond to 
his country's call, though with a heavy heart, withal, 
for his own brother Edward, the pet, the youngest 
of them all, wore the gray, while he had put on 
the blue. ''Brother against brother," continually 
flashed through his mind, ''But thank God we are 
still friends, let come what may." 

"Good-bye, Mary," said John, as he clasped 
her to his bosom, "take care of yourself and the 
babies; kiss them often for me; God bless you all!" 
and he was gone. 

' 'Will the separation be harder for him than 
for me?" thought Mary, as she gazed after the 
retreating form. "Life cannot be the same now 
that the sunshine is gone. The burden seems too 
heavy," she moaned, as he disappeared from her 
sight. 

Eight long, dreary months elapsed since John 
had marched away to join the troops at Lexington. 
Eight months of anxiety and suspense for the wife, 
and of loneliness for the children. 

One cold, stormy evening Mary was preparing 
the little ones for bed, a step w^as heard on the 
porch, a voice was heard humming "Home, Sweet 
Home." "Papa! Papa!" fairly screamed the de- 
lighted Kitty, eldest of the three children. "My 

8 



papa!" said quiet little May. *Tapa tummed 
home!'* lisped Jasper, the three-year old. 

''O, John!'' That was all, but the words con- 
tained a world of meaning. 

'*No, my little wife, never a deserter, thank 
God! only home on a short furlough. Am I ill? 
Oh, no; only a slight cold." But how pale and 
wan he looked. Mary's heart almost failed her as 
she hastened to remove the tattered garments, and 
worn shoes from the bleeding feet. '*Not a word 
now until I make you comfortable. ' ' The cheerful 
cabin, ivarm fire, and clean bed made home seem a 
veritable paradise to John, who had slept on the 
ground for months. With tender and careful nurs- 
ing, he was soon well again; and the few remaining 
days of his furlough were spent in putting things 
to rights. A nail here, a board there, stacks of 
wood surrounded the cabin, and everything wore 
an air of comfort. The majority of the people said 
the war would soon be over; but the wise ones 
shook their heads. Many lives they felt would be 
sacrificed, homes destroyed and country laid waste 
before peace would be declared. 

Rumors now reached them that guerrillas were 
hiding a few miles away and might, at an}^ moment, 
burn the village. *'Idle rumors," some said, but 
men looked worried and care-worn; mothers clasped 
their children to their breasts with anew fear, and 
no one ventured far from home. 

As the days passed, affairs assumed a more 



threatening aspect. Work-shops were closed, farm- 
ers and merchants gathered on the 'Tublic square," 
and gravely discussed the situation. John came 
home one evening looking pale and anxious. Mary 
felt that all was not well. *'I must cheer him up, 
no matter what the trouble may be,'' thought Mary, 
**and make the few remaining days a pleasant 
memory when on the field of battle.'' *^Come, my 
babies, climb on papa's knee; tell him how much 
you have helped mama to-day, and what a nice, 
comfortable bed you made for Tabby and the little 
kitties. Katie, tell your papa about the brave boys 
in blue you saw march away today. Now for a 
romp, a good-night kiss, and off to dreamland." 

' 'What is the matter, John ? Why are you so 
depressed?" 

*'0h! my wife! my children! What will become 
of you?- The rebels are coming and may be upon 
us at any moment! We must collect our thoughts, 
lay our plans to escape. Oh, my God! that it 
should come to this! in this fair and beautiful land 
of ours, 'The land of the free!' " 

The snow fell thick and fast on that memorable 
November night. The wind shrieked and groaned 
dismally as it carried the fine particles of snow into 
every crack and crevice, and it seemed to say, *'We, 
too, are at war." 

Suddenly Jack, the burly mastiff, lying by the 
fire-place, pricked up his ears, uttered a low growl 
and sprang to the window. 

lo 



* 'Who comes there ?'* and John snatched his 
musket from the table. 

* 'Brother/' was the guarded reply. **I came 
to save you; flee for your lives!" 

One long look of love and anguish into the 
little home, one clasp of the hand, and he was gone! 

John and Mary gazed at each other for a mo- 
ment. Words were useless; all was lost. 

Home! How the word burned in the memory 
of the wife, as she hastily gathered together cloth- 
ing and food for their journey. 

In the meantime John, together with James, 
his invalid brother, who made his home with the 
family, was making hasty preparations for removal 
to a place of safety. By midnight, all was ready. 
The ox-team stood at the door. Bedding, clothing 
and food were thrown into the wagon in a promis- 
cuous heap. The children cuddled down in warm 
places, all ready to start, but what a leave-taking! 

How could the}^ leave the home the}^ had 
worked so hard to make ! Trifles, mementos of the 
olden days, ' 'when life was bright and hearts were 
young,'' all must be sacrificed to the "God of war." 

A hasty glance through the house, a loving 
and sad farewell to the pets they must leave behind, 
and they were off, never to return. 

On reaching the main street of the village, a 
wild scene presented itself; pandemonium reigned 
supreme. Terror-stricken inhabitants were running 
to and fro ; the feeble flicker from the lanterns 

II 



served only to intensify the darkness. Drivers, 
cursing and lashing their teams, trying, in vain, to 
urge them on through the driving storm. Mothers, 
praying and trying to soothe their terrified and 
shivering children. 

The little party moved on slowly, leaving the 
noise and confusion behind, but not the sadness of 
their hearts, made still more sad by the terrible 
scenes just witnessed. 

Oh! war may seem a romance when it does not 
reach those near and dear to us, when home ties 
are not severed; but when hearts are broken and 
homes destroyed, the aspect is changed. 

Morning found the refugees far from home, 
cold, weary and hungry. After partaking of a hur- 
ried meal and feeding the oxen, they again urged 
them on, but the second night they were compelled 
to seek shelter from the storm in a deserted negro 
cabin. 

Fortunately they found plenty of wood and 
soon had a roaring fire in the low, broad fire-place. 
The logs crackled, the flames sputtered, and the 
rosy light cast a cheerful glow over the old cabin 
and the strangers beneath its roof. 

*'How w^arm and comfortable,'* thought Mary, 
as she prepared supper for the cold and hungry 
travelers. *'I wonder if we are safe? How dark 
and stormy ! What a terrible night to be out, 
homeless wanderers! Will the sun ever shine again 
as in the days gone by?'' 

J2 



**Hark! I certainly heard the report of a gun! 
What does it mean?" 

"O Mary!" cried James, rushing into the 
cabin, pale and breathless. 

' 'What is the matter ? Are the rebels coming?' ' 
and Mary ran to where the children lay sleeping. 

''We are lost! John is hurt, dying!" 

"Oh, no!" cried Mary, rushing past him, out 
into the storm. 

There he lay, pale and bleeding from a wound 
in the head, and, there, bending over the prostrate 
form, was the rebel who had fired the fatal shot. 
The rebel ? Yes. Good God! it was the brother 
who had risked his life two nights before to save 
him! 

''O Mary! do you think he will die? I did 
not know him!" and he fell on his knees, in the 
storm, writhing in prayer. 

Tenderly they carried the dying man into the 
cabin. His wife took his wounded head in her arms, 
calling, calling to him, as in the days of their court- 
ship long ago. He did not hear, he did not re- 
spond. Two days of alternate fear and hope, when 
at the last he opened his eyes and gazed lovingly at 
those around him. "Good-bye, Mary; take care of 
yourself and the babies. — Kiss them often — for 
me. — My love — to — Edward — " and he was not. 

Only a rude pine box and a little gash in the 
hillside; that was all. To this day no stone marks 
the spot. But God keeps watch. Grief and re- 

^3 



morse left their mark. Edward, who had not 
ceased his pleading for some sign of recognition, 
gave way under the strain. His mind became a 
blank to all except the words, ** My love to Ed- 
ward/* 

Henceforth, as Mary cared for him, as in a per- 
petual childhood, he would sit throughout the long 
days and imagine himself a child, as in the fair, far 
days when John and he played in their Kentucky 
home, in the long waving grass, chasing butter- 
flies, gathering nuts, wading the little creek, build- 
ing toy water-wheels in its mellow murmuring 
waters. 

Did it require self-sacrifice on the part of Mary 
Morris to care for the slayer of her husband ? If it 
did, she never betrayed it by look or word. The 
day after the funeral, the family resumed their 
journey. To leave the husband and go on alone 
seemed well-nigh impossible. 

Wending their way slowly over the rough road 
to the brow of the hill, the wife could but pause for 
one last look upon the scene of their great sorrow. 
The lone grave among the pines, unmarked by board 
or stone, only the wind to chant a requiem and the 
promise of kind ''Mother Nature" that the grass 
should grow, and the wild fl owners bloom, when 
winter should lift his icy coverlet. 

Then the breath from the trees seemed to 
blow from those pines, under which she and John 
had walked in the days of their courtship, and she 



remembered then, how they had prayed together 
there, and how he had said that God would care 
for them, and all, surely, would be well. 

The team moved slowly down the hill. She 
was standing alone. At the memory of that far- 
distant prayer under the Kentucky pines, the peace 
that came to her spirit there seemed to return; she 
turned to descend; for her there were God, onward, 
duty, destiny, until that morn of morns, when he 
who had walked with her under the Kentucky 
pines, should walk wnth her under the tree of life. 
She followed down the hill into the future, and one 
day joy came back to her when she saw her son, 
another John Morris, a leader in the council of the 
land for which his father had died. 

Her feet seemed to step stronger with each 
motion. ''My lot," she said, 

"It is the lot of woman 

To uplift, 
Purify, and confirm by its own gracious gift 
The world, in despite of the world's dull endeavor 
To degrade, and drag down, and oppose it forever. 
The mission of genius: to watch, and to wait, 
To renew, to redeem, and to regenerate. 
The mission of woman on earth! to give birth 
To the mercy of Heaven descending on earth; 
The mission of woman: permitted to bruise 
The head of the serpent, and sweetly infuse 
Through the sorrow and sin of earth's registered curse 
The blessing which mitigates all; born to nurse, 
And to sooth, and to solace, to help and to heal 
The sick world that leans on her. ' * 

^5 



The team turned a bend in the road, Mary soon 
caught up with it, and the kind people who had 
accompanied her up the hill, saw her no more. 

Ida ly. Gregory. 




^Iienon)en9. 



c 



HINK of the Artist, who painted the flowers, 
Think of the mountains, the vaUeys, the showers. 
Think how they come whene'er they are bidden, 
Think of the treasures that therein are hidden. 



Think of the great seas, the lakes and the ocean, 
The great heart of love, the lasting devotion; 
Who produceth the actors is back of the stage; 
Whose own sovereign will controlleth the age. 

Think how great a world, of day and of night. 
The birds and flowers, the joy and the light, 
The music, the fragrance, perfection of pleasure, 
Inexhaustible store of excellent treasure. 

Whence cometh love, and whence our devotion. 
The symmetrical blending, the beauty of motion, 
The orbs and the planets, the great solar system? 
Think where and from whence this wonderful Wisdom. 

'Tis He giveth color and he giveth sound. 
He painteth the bee that flitteth around, 
He prepareth the poet, for the singer the song. 
He is coming again to right every wrong. 

NORRIS C. SpriGG. 

i6 



O^r jmie [ad. 



©THINGS has changed since he went away, 
And somehow the light seems gone from the day; 
And natur' seems sad and sort o' blue, 
And the birds don't sing as they used to do, 
And the brindle pup do' want to play, 
And he droops his tail in a hang-dog way ; 
And he seems to say, *'I'm a mournin' too, 
Fer suthin' that once I had, 
Suthin' that made me so happy: 
'Twas the love of a little lad. 
And there's no one to play with me. 
Now that he's gone. 

And I feel sort o' lonesome like an' forlorn." 
The spotted calf in the meado' lot, 
Her age was two days, but she hain't f ergot 
Of how she was gi'n to our little lad; 
And she misses him too, and she wants him bad. 
She hain't forgot the mornin' down in the meado' lot 
When he patted her sides and smoothed her hair, 
And called her little Spot, 

And she gi'n him a lick with her little red tongue; 
And "Daddy," says he, "she's a pretty one, 
And I wouldn't sell her now, would you. 
If some one was to offer a hundred er two?" 
The little red colt, she neighs in vain; 
I reckon she's callin' her master's name; 
Fer he used to feed her with things she'd like. 
And she thought a heap o' the little tyke; 
She'd sort o' rub up agin his clo'se. 
And invite him to tickle her on the nose, 
And she'd whinny and neigh till he knew as well, 

^7 



Just what she was a try in' to tell. 

She'd follow him 'round, like a cat would a mouse, 

All over the barn and into the house, 

Just fer a lump of sugar, er a juicy apple er two; 

And how to get what she wanted, 

She was pretty sure to know. 

The old sow pig, she misses him too, 

Just as much as a pig can do; 

Why once she invited him into her pen 

To have a look at her young ones ten, 

And * 'Daddy," sez he, *' 'tis very plain 

She wants me to give these pigs a name." 

So what did he do but name them all; 

And they learnt their names and would come at his call. 

Our old dog Tra}^ over there in the shade, 

Ah, many's the time with the lad he's played 

At fetchin' sticks, and huntin' fer game; 

But suthin' now seems to tell him. 

He won't never do it again. 

Sometimes he will start and jerk up his ears, 

'Tis the little lad's voice he fancies he hears. 

Then he settles down and sort o' sighs. 

And the saddest look comes into his eyes. 

Indoors the yellow canary, 

Who used nearly to split his throat, 

He twitters a little now and then, 

But he never sings a note. 

And sadly there in the corner. 

Sits our old pussy gray; 

She seems to be hankerin' fer some one 

To push up her hair the wrong way. 

And sadly we sit in the twilight, 

The little lad's mother and I, 

A watchin' the clouds o' sunset. 

And the stars come into the sky, 

And we think and talk of our little lad, 

i8 



Of the happy care-free way that he had; 

And somehow the tears is bound to fall, 

Fer he's gone from our sight, and beyond recall. 

Othe days, and the nights, they are long and sad, 

A pinin' and wishin' fer our little lad; 

And though we'd give all our years to have him back 

Again on this lonely farm, 

Still God knows best, and somehow we feel , 

That wherever he is, he is safe from harm; 

And all we can do is to watch and wait 

For our time to pass through the heavenly gate; 

And then if the Bible says what is true; 

Why our lad '11 be waiting fer us there too, 

With eyes like the blue mornin' glories. 

And hair like the yellow corn. 

Just as happy and sweet as he used to be. 

In the days that's now passed and gone. 

Bl<IZABETH M. WKATHKRHEAD. 

^* t^* {^W 



c 



jV^ffler. 



O thee I'll softly cling, 
When winter's snow. 
Makes me the proper thing, 
Where e'er you go. 

And when the task is done — 

All veiled in gloom 
And doubt of glories won. 

No pleasures bloom. — 
Drawn closely to thy breast 

I'll warm thy heart, 
Till sorrows ne'er confessed 

From thee depart. 

AI.ICE POI.K Hll,!,. 

19 




^^Hovjsoe^er the world went ill^ 
Thrushes still sa?ig in it.^'' 

SO they did, and sing they will, 
Dare they once begin it; 
But our thrushes seem afraid, 
Sing too much for praises — 
Pose like tiny actois made 
B'er the curtain raises. 

Tremble lest their twittering throats 

Should forego its cunning, 
And some stray impromptu note 

Make folks think they're funning. 
Never dare they give it out 

As did thrushes olden, 
Whether tremulo or shout 

By no power withholden. 

Poet thrushes act the same; 

Theme has nothing in it, 
Can they only spread their name 

Where some chance may win it? 
True the daily press is down 

Solid upon thrushes — 
Burns their pretty feathers brown. 

Every twitter crushes. 

But the ranges rear their crests 

Where their Maker placed them, 
Columned clouds in splendor rest 

As creation graced them; 
Rivers chant tho' winter bars 

Many a choir with ice floes; 
Press the poet's self-love jars 

By its cynic nice blows. 

20 



Do these prove the case in point, 

That we have no thrushes? 
Office chairs may lack a joint, 

So paste pot and brushes. 
Howsoe'er the world goes ill, 

Thrushes will sing in it, 
As do lark and whip-poor-will, 

Nightingale and linnet. 



j^* {^W 8^* 



H. L. Wason. 



^ran)s. 



^•i/HRUMS, whether of silk or cotton 
d \ Whether of coarse or fine, 

^^^ Thrums, to the finished fabric 

Or snapped in the midway line 
Thrums, always, and who shall help it, 

While the loom of life doth spin. 
And the Weaver's skillful fingers, 
Keep filling the new warp in? 

H. Iv. Wason. 




21 



^ 1^ prieods. 

^» t^* %^ 

as the old year now is sinking 
'Neath the waves of endless time, 
At the new born era's coming 

Makes each moment seem sublime, 
Draw the Presence close within us 

Hold this chain of thought, as one, 

Bring the nineteen hundredth, telling 

That the truth Our King has won. 

Send electric currents flowing 

With God's love, His truth and light 
That will lift us higher; higher: 

To ethereal' d halos, bright, 
May this union hold forever, 

Kndless harmony increase 
Till that voice in echo answers, 

All is perfect joy and peace. 
Where thou art, I am, not seeming. 

Free in purpose, free at will, 
All's supreme within thy holding — 

All thy hopes, thou canst fulfil 
Ye are Gods in given numbers. 

Fill out, then the laws sublime 
See that justice is your motto 

In the coming years of time. 

Hold the swaying restless nations. 

Gather a//, the crumbs that fall, 
From the Master's bounteous table. 

Feed His lambs; not one, but all: 
Prisons then: Oh, no! unfettered, 

Free to all; this air we breathe, 
Freed aye, brothers sisters kindred, all — 

Anthem'd blessings, will receive. 

22 



NoWy within without's the kingdom, 

Where the Master reigns supreme, 
Gives us bread, the spirit's manna. 

Garnered well, with love serene, 
Holy, blessed, Holy Giver 

Heaven's harmonious chorus sing. 
Ring, celestial bells a welkin, 

Welcome to our royal King. 

Mrs. R. B. B. G11.1.ESPIB. 

^W ^* 5^* 



3 



now. 



B RIFTING, driving, glittering snow, 
Wildly beating the window's glow; 
Swirling, curling, whirling away — 
A shadowy wraith of diamond spray. 

A mantle falling through icy air, 

White as the robes the angels wear, 
Cursing and blessing it comes to earth — 

The woe of the one and the others mirth. 

A tinkling bell and a tolling bell, 

A joyful herald, a mournful knell, 
A life that is present, a life that is past, 

Are jangled in one in the snow-whirling blast. 
Drifting, driving, glittering snow, 

A picture of human life you show — 
Out of the nowhere and back again, 

Glow-clad a moment — and out of ken. 

J. A. V. Prick. 
23 



THe [Jorecognized, 



t^» t^* t^* 

CHE Fort loomed dark and grim against the 
midnight sky, a sleepless sentinel keeping 
watch over the vast solitudes of the prairie. 
Up and down in the moonlight the sentry paced off 
his beat while the barracks slept. The men were 
much wearied with the days preparation and excite- 
ment, for the sun had gone down on a fair land no 
longer at peace with the world. Suddenly a soldier 
raised himself on his elbow, cautiously cast his eye 
over the rows of sleeping men and listened. Only 
their deep breathing came to his ear. Stealthily 
he slipped out of his bunk, into his uniform and 
made his way to the open door. He pulled his soft 
felt hat down over his eyes, and was about to pass 
into the open when the sentry stopped him . 

*'I'm sick,'' he faltered in reply to the sentry' 
question. 

^Tasson." 

Swiftly he crossed the parade ground and 
reached the outer guard. He glanced hurriedly from 
left to right, and in a moment would have passed 
the line, but the picket saw him and called **Halt!" 

* 'It's you again, is it?" said the picket as he 
detained the soldier by his cape and closely scanned 
his face. 

'%et me pass," the soldier pleaded. 

24, 



There was no answer. 

* 'Just this once, Mac. ' ' 

The strong voice pleaded and trembled with the 
earnestness of his request. 

*7ini," said the picket, drawing a deep breath, 
* 'Didn't I tell you the last time I would never let 
you pass the lines again?" 

"Yes, Mac; but you know why I want to go — 
let me go, this is the last night." 

"Yes, this is the last night. Tomorrow we 
march; for that reason, if no other, I ought not to 
let you pass." 

"O Mac, let me go, and I promise you I'll be 
back in an hour — no one will be the wiser, and it 
means so much — so much to me. ' ' 

Still the picket was silent. The soldier chafed 
under it and grew desperate. 

"I'm going anyway. You may shoot me or 
not, just as you like," he said defiantly, taking a 
step forward. 

The picket looked into the intense eager eyes 
of the man before him, and struggled with the sym- 
pathy that bid him defy his duty. 

"Put your hand on my gun," he said at last. 
* 'Swear that you will be back in an hour. If 3^ou 
are not back by that time, my life may answer for 



vours." 



Tears of gratitude sprang to the soldier's eyes, 
as he placed his left hand on the gun-barrel, raised 
his right to the moon-lit heavens and solemnly re- 

25 



peated, '*As God lives, I promise.'* Without a 
word the picket shouldered his gun and paced off to 
the far end of his beat. The soldier gazed a mo- 
ment at his retreating form, now a black, slow mov- 
ing figure against the sky, then quickly went on 
his way. 

Now he was on the dusty road that wound 
dimly over the swell past the poor, mean shanties of 
the ''unrecognized.'' Here lived in various states 
of wretchedness the wives of a few of the privates 
who had maried without the ofl&cer's consent, and 
upon these social law at the Fort had placed its ban. 
As Jim Downer passed over the prairie, he could 
see long lines of washing in front of the shanties 
in the distance, and a bitter look came into his face. 
Backward his thoughts travelled, and the scene of 
their first meeting at the Colonel's ball came into 
his mind. She was the young school-teacher at the 
Fort, and a favorite with the ofl&cers' wives, and he 
likewise a favorite with his oflScers. He remem- 
bered how sweet and dainty she looked in her white 
gown of organdie and lace, the neck close up to her 
pretty throat, her cheeks glowing with youth and 
health, her eyes glistening like cornflowers after a 
storm. He remembered how swiftly the hours 
passed, and how he had returned to his barracks to 
dream of floating draperies and shining eyes until 
reveille sounded the next morning. 

The bitter look passed away and his face grew 
handsome in the moonlight, for this memory was 

26 



like a beautiful dream that grew in beauty the 
longer he dwelt upon it. A rabbit scurried across 
the way and broke the thread of retrospection. The 
The bitter look now came back — she was now his 
wnfe and had joined the ranks of the unrecognized. 
The dry grass crackled ominously under his swiftly 
moving feet, and a feeling of apprehension almost 
akin to alarm, stole into his mind.' He started at 
his own shadow. Even the chirp of a cricket in 
the grass made him uneasy, so deep was the silence. 
At last he passed under the lines of white, flutter- 
ing things and stood before the door. There was no 
light in the cabin, only the moon streaming in at 
the window and through the cracks in the poor 
walls. 

''Madge?'' he called softly as he crossed the 
threshold. 

' 'O Jim ! ' ' came a woman' s voice from the dark- 
ness, and in a moment he felt her loving arms about 
his neck. He sat down before the open window 
and took her on his lap as he might a little child, 
and pressed her to his throbbing heart. The moon- 
light silvered their motionless forms and touched the 
woman's hair as it flowed unrestrained over the 
broad breast of her soldier husband. For a long 
time they sat in the silence, their hearts pulsing 
with the sorrow that knows not words. At length 
the man started and looked at his watch — he had 
but ten minutes to reach the Fort. 

27 



*'I must go/' he said huskily, but his wife still 
clung to his neck. 

'•I must go!" he repeated a little firmer. 

She raised her head from his breast; there were 
no tears in her eyes, only the love-light burning on 
unsatisfied. She would not let him see how deeply 
this parting wounded her. Taking his dark hand- 
some face between her hands, she drew it down and 
kissed him again and again. 

"Madge, darling — the babies. I must kiss 
them before I go.'' 

Silently she led him to the next room where 
the twins lay sleeping. This too was full of the 
moonlight that was everywhere. In the corner 
stood an old cradle, one rocker gone, and over it a 
white muslin curtain. He pushed it back gently, 
and looked with longing eyes upon his babies, one 
at the foot, the other at the head. As he gazed on 
their innocent loveliness and felt the trembling of 
his wife at his side, the tempter came. 

' 'Take Madge and the babies and hide in the 
mountains," it said. ''One soldier more or less can 
make but little difference, and this parting is hard — 
so hard. ' ' 

Fiercely the idea burnt into his brain, and as 
fiercely he fought against it. The nails of his 
clenched hands left their marks in the flesh, so ter- 
rible a foe was this unseen adversary. Suddenly 
the face of the picket came between him and his 
struggle, and shorn of his power, the tempter stood 

28 



aside. A sad, sweet peace came into his face, and 
stooping he touched the brow of his babes so lov- 
ingly, yet so lightly, that they did not waken. Giv- 
ing ihem a last fond look, he drew the curtain over 
the cradle and left them. Drawing his wife to the 
doorway he held her there in a long embrace. He 
kissed her hair, her hands, her eyes, and then with- 
out a word, stepped out into a world suddenly grow^n 
dark and lonely. 

*7im?' 

He stopped. 

*7im?" 

He turned back. 

'^Whatisit, darling?^' 

'*I want your promise.'* 

''Yes, yes, — anything; what is it, darling?*' 

*7iG^/' pressing his large hands to her lips, ''I 
know you will be true to me — ' ' 

''Yes, of course — don't worry about that," he 
interrupted. 

"I want to ask you to remember — never do as a 
soldier what you would shrink from doing as a man. 
Do not hide what is degrading and debasing under 
the cloak of a soldier — you are a man first — a sol- 
dier afterwards." 

"I promise," he said as he kissed her again, 
then stode forward once more into the silent night. 
The moonlight gleamed on his broad shoulders, 
and with straining eyes she watched him disappear 
over the swell. For a moment she stood in the 

29 



doorway after he had gone from her sight, over- 
whelmed with a sudden, awful sence of loss. With 
the look of one who does not comprehend, her eyes 
rested on the black, angular buildings of the Fort, 
swimming before her in a sea of light. Her dumb 
eyes followed the fluttering of the regimental flag, 
as it floated far out over the barracks and mingled 
wdth the mystery of the night. The sight of the 
emblem seemed to recall her wandering senses, and 
w^ith a cry like that of a wounded animal, she stag- 
gered into the room where the twins slept. Throw- 
ing herself upon the bed, she gave way to the wild 
clamorous grief w^hich had so long struggled within 
her. At the sound of her weeping the twins aw^oke 
and mingled their piteous cries with hers. So in- 
tense was her own sorrow that pity and compas- 
sion was dead. Only the brooding instinct of the 
mother caused her to take the frightened crying 
babes in her arms. Back and forth she rocked them 
cradling their heads on her heaving breast. Her 
tear wet eyes looked straight before her, and seemed 
to pierce the distance. Her only thought was of the 
silent figure gliding swiftly over the prairie. She 
did not even know when the wailing voices were 
hushed, but absently rocked on, holding the babes 
fast to her breast. At last, worn out with weeping, 
her own tired eyes closed and she slept. Her abun- 
dant hair fell about her like a veil, and now and 
then baby hands opened and closed restlessly on its 



shining strands. 



30 



After awhile the gray light crept in where the 
moonlight had been, shrouding the empty cradle, 
making duller and dingier the scanty furniture of 
the room, lingering on the face of one who now and 
then moaned in her sleep. Suddenly the sunrise 
gun rolled its swift, sharp sound over the prairie, 
and the gray shrouded cradle was rosy with the 
early dawn. The sound had hardly died away, 
when a glittering line of bayonets appeared over the 
swell, and a thousand marching feet moved with 
quick regularity over the dusty road. Nearer they 
came, and the sound muffled in the distance grew 
into the distinct *'one, two,'' as though one man 
marched instead of a thousand. Now they were 
passing the cabins, and not a few turned compas- 
sionate glances toward them. One soldier turned 
his dark, tear-dimmed eyes toward the farther cabin, 
and his colonel heard him murmur, ''God pity — God 
bless." At that moment the w^oman on the bed 
moved uneasily, and called softly, ''Ji^^. Jim?" 
The marching feet died away and the prairie again 
slept in its boundless silence. Suddenly she aw^oke 
with a start. ''Come back to me, Jim!" she 
moaned, but only the waking cries of her babies 
answ^ered her. The emptiness of the future drew 
in and about her like a pall, for the light of her life 
had gone with those swift marching feet. 

The months passed, and Madge Downer's weary 
face often appeared at the post office window. At 
first letters came regularly, but for a long time she 



had gone away empt5^-hande(i, empty-hearted. But 
her soul was cast in a heroic mould, and all through 
the months of silence she still believed in him, still 
trusted him. Her faith was fixed and could not be 
moved. The time dragged on, and still there was 
no news. Rumors of battles on sea and land passed 
from lip to lip, and with pinched anxious face 
Madge listened and waited. Once she saw the 
Colonel's wife, her girlhood's friend. They did not 
speak, but each read in the other's face a common 
sorrow, a common fear. 

At last there came a day when Madge was no 
longer able to go to the post office. Her strength 
was gone, and listlessly she dragged herself about 
the cabin, caring as best she could for the fretful 
babes, while her eyes burned with a feverish light 
that told of waiting, suspense, — disappointment. 

One day the Colonel's wnfe went to the post 
office, and the postmaster gave into her hand a let- 
ter, the first she had received for many weeks. 
With eager fingers she opened it and was about to 
turn away. 

''How is Mrs. Downer?" asked the postmaster, 
calling after her. 

*'I do not know," she answered in a low voice. 

''There's a letter for her here," he added, and 
I'm afraid she's sick. She has been here regularly 
until last week, and the disappointment in her eyes 
made my heart ache. We that knew her a few 
years ago can see a terrible change." 

32 



**Yes/' she answered absently, while she fin- 
gered the first sheets of her letter. The postmaster 
watched her narrowly as she stood before him, her 
eyes gliding rapidly over the closely written pages. 
Suddenly the letter dropped from her hand and she 
rushed toward the window. 

' 'Let me have it, quick!*' she cried. ''I will 
take it to her.'* 

The postmaster passed it to her with a pleased, 
relieved smile, for he sympathized with the lonely 
refined woman, isolated from friends because of the 
conditions surrounding her marriage . The Colonel' s 
wife picked her letter from the floor, and hugged it 
with the other one to her bosom. She ran rather 
than walked the distance to the shanties, while the 
wind blew her dark hair about a thankful, softened 
face. A prayer of gratitude was on her lips as she 
hastened on with her message. 

The door of the shanty was open, and she en- 
tered without knocking. Madge was lying on the 
bed, unheeding the cries of the twins in the cradle. 
She raised herself with an effort, and as she recog- 
nized her caller a look of hurt embarassment over- 
spread her face, and an unconscious apology for the 
poverty of her surroundings rose to her lips. The 
Colonel's wife did not hear, nor wait for welcome, 
but with a joyous light shining in her face, threw 
her arms about her and sobbed: 

**Madge, darling, forgive me, if you can." 

33 



Madge was astonished, but the Colonel's wife 
went on, 

"Here's a letter for you — a letter from Jim.*' 

Madge comprehended but one word, and with a 
glad cry reached for the letter. The Colonel's wife 
put it into her hand, but the shock was too much — 
she fell back on the bed unconscious. When she 
recovered, she was in the Colonel's pretty home at 
the Fort. She but vaguely understood where she 
was, but somehow her sorrow seemed lifted. A 
sound as of rushing water was in her ears, and 
through a mist she saw dimly the Colonel's wife 
bending over her. Then she seemed to remember, 
and reached out her thin hand with an eager gesture. 

**Yes, Madge, but let me tell you — you are too 
weak to read it now — shall I?" 

She inclined her head and the Colonel's wife 
continued, 

^ll'lltell the best first— he saved the Colonel's 
life and has been promoted for bravery. He is Cap- 
tain Downer now, and is coming home on a furlough. 
As soon as you are well enough you are to meet him 
in Washington, you and the babies. Is that enough?' ' 

Madge could not answer. Pride, loyalty, love 
struggled with each other and stifled speech. 
Happy tears over-flowed into her eyes, and she 
turned and buried her face in the pillow. The 
Colonel's wife understood, and without a word 
softly tip- toed out of the room. 

Mary W01.FE Dargin. 

34- 



TiD 



re^n). 



CHE ev'ning shadows had thrown their pall 
O'er the face of nature, serenely calm, 
While the saddened notes of the whip-poor-will's call, 
To my dreamy senses brought a heavenly balm. 

The gentle night winds that played o'er my brow, 

Lulled me to rest in their fond embrace, 
Their rhythmic music seems to come to me now, 

Leaving on mem'ry its gentle trace. 

I stood in a quiet, sequestered glen. 

Alone, in a forest's most lovely spot. 
The home of the golden-crested wren. 

And the vale of the blue forget-me-not. 

Alone — alone — in that beautiful bower. 
Where the hand of God in plenty had strewn 

Happy content, in His lavish power, 

Deep in the wild -wood, to man unknown. 

A laughing brooklet, o'er its pebbly bed, 
Kissed the flowers wild on its mossy banks, 

While the stately pines, by its waters fed. 
In silence gladly seemed to render thanks. 

Although in the midst of beauty and life, 

A sadness o'erspread this lovely scene, 
As from ev'ry picture of nature rife, 

Were reflected the words, ''It might have been." 

I saw in the life of the forest deep 

The story of man on his earthly way 
To the zenith of hope — only to sleep, 

When his star had set with the sun's last ray. 

3S 



His joys and griefs, his sorrows and fears, 

Ambition's chariot of tinsel and gold, 
Had borne to him only its garner of tears, 

Reap'd from childhood, and youth, and man grown old. 

The budding leaf and the lovely flower, 

The stately oak and the river free, 
Alike will fade whene'er His hour 

Shall doom them to Time's eternity. 

My vision passed when the waning moon 

Had bade farewell to the marshy fen, 
And had sunk to rest o'er the lowland dune 

'Neath those fateful words, ''IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN." 

Frederick A. Johnson. 




36 



/Vi) /Vn)eric9n literature. 

^ffl[T was pleasant to me to meet in England 

H plants and weeds familiar to me in the gar- 

■■ dens of Vermont. The weeds that line the 

walk from the gate to the door of the house in 

which I was born, I recognized in Yorkshire. 

The immigrant from the Old World to the 
New brought with him seeds. Carefnlly or care- 
lessly he planted them. Old England is in New 
England. We imported the names of three of our 

chief cities — Boston, New York and . 

I have not space to mention the **Villes'' and 
''Hamptons" in the map of a free and independent 
United States. There is a pleasant town on the 
Fox river in Wisconsin named Berlin. The war of 
the Revolution did not separate us from the Old 
World. 

The north wind from Canada sewed thistle 
seed all along our northern frontier. Coming West 
you can trail the immigrant. He fed his horses 
oats and he fed the ground thistle seed. 

We have been for a long time dependents on 
an old world we fled from. Once in a while we 
thought we had invented a good word or phrase. 
''Dog-gon-it" is supposed to be of Indiana. Oh, 
no! I find it in Node' s Ambrosiana^ used by Chris- 
topher North. 

37 



We brought over to the New World Old World 
books and plays! 

Until lately the scenery of our theaters was 
from over the ocean. Our novels were English, 
or translations into English. After many years we 
raised an American man, nothing foreign about 
him — Abraham Lincoln. That product gave us 
courage to undertake to raise other things distinct- 
ively American. The whole earth may secede, but 
we are self-supporting in Literature and Art. We 
have home-made pickles and peppers that will agi- 
tate the gorged liver of any old major of the English, 
stationed in India. 

It is a delight to me to know that there is no 
Old World botany of Colorado flowers. It has 
finally dawned on the slow American mind that we 
need not imitate. We can have, and do have, 
American books and plays. 

We have come to a sense of ourselves. The 
first stiff backed book of Thomas Carlyle was com- 
pelled to be published in America. Hawthorne, 
much oppressed by the Puritan malarious conscience 
of old Salem, settled himself down to write ' 'The 
Scarlet Letter. ' ' It is purely New England. As 
ocean rolls between it and anything foreign. It in 
as individual, and of the soil, as a cactus. Emerson 
and Thorean are as individual American as Arizona. 
There is only one Arizona. There is no Gila mon- 
ster in all Europe. Hawthorne had eyes like 
Robert Burns. He saw what oppression, sup- 

3S 



pression, and depression and John Calvinism could 
do for a people to make them unhappy in life, and 
fearful in death. 

Longfellow and Whittier, at their best, cele- 
brate our own Atlantic coast. 

The interior has been attended to. James 
Whitcomb Riley has set Indiana right before the 
world. The climate may not suit you, but the 
folks do. Hamlin Garland found Iowa somewhat 
neglected and he published **Main Traveled Roads. ' ' 
It is a photograph of the life of an Iowa farmer and 
of his wife and children. Not of a farmer who has 
retired and leases his land, but of the other man 
who does the work and depends on Mr. Leiter and 
a famine in India for a decent price for his grain. 
When a famine in India occurs and Mr. Leiter ap- 
pears in the Chicago wheat pit at the same time, 
then the Western populist farmer concludes that 
McKinley and God have consolidated. The ragged 
radical buys a new sweat-shop suit of well pressed, 
cheap'and nasty shoddy and works himself in among 
the best of people. Hamlin Garland makes the grim 
situation of the farmer appear. I am sorry to say 
that his first book is his best and his last is his 
worst. 

Miss Murfree * 'Egbert Craddock" has pene- 
trated the veil that hid "Smoky Mountain.'' There 
is plenty of literary material in East Tennessee. 
A prospector can find all kinds of tragedy and com- 
edy in East Tennessee. 

39 



The Southern country, its races and mixture of 
races, and the result is made plainer by Cable, by 
Page, by Edwards. 

Helen Hunt did much for Colorado. Nobody 
has seen our State with keener eyes. The fascina- 
tion of the mountains held her seven days in the 
week — until she could not see. 

We find Bret Harte making his home for the 
last twenty years in London. But nobody has the 
gift to paint in words California, its color, its kind, 
like Bret Harte. He knows the miner, the gambler, 
the barkeeper. He sees that they also are men. 
He is as keen a detective of human nature as 
Dickens, Western American human nature he knows. 

We have not done all we can. 

At present I prefer *'Shore Acres, 'V Puddin'- 
head Wilson, '' * ^Alabama, '^ ^ ^Shenandoah, '^ ^^Rip 
Van Winkle,'' the American product, to anything 
imported. 

Myron W. Reed. 




4.0 



c 



To'/Vllie— lo i^eaVei), 



HY gentle heart will beat no more, 
And from me thou hast parted . 
By Jaith^ I see thee on that shore 
Where none are broken-hearted. 

In mem'ry, I recall again 

The winding path to ''Poplar Spring," 
The flowers we gathered in the glen 

When little birds would with thee sing. 

The wild grape's bloom perfumed the dale, 
The sun's rays peeped through leaf and shade. 

The rippling waters in the vale 

Would float the fairy-boats we made. 

There oft' I'd go, and in my breast. 
There comes an aching, chilling pain, 

I see the log, where oft' we'd rest, 
And 'round it withered flowers remain. 

Dear little one! though now apart. 

Oh! *'May His grace sufficient be," 
To change my wilful, sinful heart. 

And take my spirit soon to thee. 

Dark grow the shadows — evermore, 
From thee on earth I'm parted. 

^y faith ^ I'll meet thee on that shore 
Where none are broken-hearted. 

Orro Hai,!,. 
41 



/Vi) mitflron Re\/erie. 

^* {^* ^* 

BRIGHT rays of the warm sun fell upon the 
golden-brown and red of changing leaves, 
mirrored against the clear blue of an au- 
tumn sky. In the park, beds of late flowers and 
lawns, still green, preserved by constant care, at- 
tracted many to spend their leisure moments there. 

On one of the seats a young mother sat, 
watching her four small children playing and 
scampering about. Beautiful children they were, 
and full of life, health, and mischief. As the 
mother watched them, her young face grew sad, as 
she thought of all the care and worry, they had 
brought into her young life. 

A woman, scarcely younger than herself, ac- 
companied by her lover, occupied a seat not far 
away. Scraps of their gay conversation floated on 
the autumn breeze to the ears of the young mother, 
until her heart had an aching longing for the 
departed days, when gaiety, with no thought of 
are was hers. Close to her side the baby toddled, 
and looking wishfully into her face, lisped, 
* 'Mamma, tum pay wis me.*' Her pleading tones 
and wistful face, for once went unheeded, as the 
mother, still occupied with dreams of the past, re- 
plied, **Run away dear, and play with brother. 
Don't bother mamma; mamma's tired." The rum- 

4-2 



ble of carriage wheels sounded on the pavement 
just outside the park. The mother looked up, 
startled, to see a funeral procession passing by. 
The hearse of spotless white, drawn by two white 
horses, contained a little white casket, covered with 
flowers. In the mourners' carriage, she saw the 
father's face, with a look of awful grief stamped 
upon it. Beside him, sat a little boy and girl, down 
whose cheeks tears were streaming in childish sor- 
row. With a trembling heart, she next saw the 
pitiful face of the mother, too grief stricken for 
tears. 

The sun sinking from the sight behind the 
golden-brown of the trees, and tinging the rustling 
dead leaves with a brighter hue, fell upon the young 
mother, hurrying homeward. Her little ones were 
gathered close about her, and a thankful prayer 
was in her heart for God's kindness in giving, and 
leaving with her, her darlings. 

Cora Townsknd McNkrnky. 




4-3 



I^dona. 



s 



UCH a little wisp of sunlight 

Once dropped in, to flood our home; 
Prancing, 
Dancing, 
Tempting us, no more to roam. 

Sporting with things that surround her; 
Laughter-loving, from care free, 

Rambling, 

Gamboling, 
Now here, now there, soul full of glee. 

What a bliss to know that ever, 
She is ours, that nothing — never — 

Alarming, 
Harming, 
Can tear her from the hearts, that love her. 

Our little chick, is just now fledging. 
Will danger fast, and thick, come hedging? 

Surrounding? 

Abounding? 
What's to guard her, from all harm? 

The sunshine of that baby face. 
Adorns the girl, enticing grace, 

Enhances, 

Entrances, 
All charms, which make her, still, our praise. 

Papa's own dear name she bears, 

lyike clover sweet, whose bloom she wears. 

She's rifting. 

Drifting, 
Swiftly toward young maidenhood. 

U 



Her morning breaks, with ruddy glow; 
As fresh perfume of violets blow, 

Gliding, 

Guiding, 
Her hither, thither, along life's rounds. 

Our boding fears are quick in coming, 
A shadow passes, in the gloaming, 
It whispers tales of sweet delight. 
Pictures our darling, visions bright; 

The music swells. 

The festive bells 
Ring out. 

We're all alone! 
Our little maid has flown from home. 

Ei.i*A Randai,!, King. 




45 



^e [Jnn)3Skir)g of a^diot. 



^» t^* t^C 



{^^.iv 




ITH the execution of Maxi- 
milian, in the year 1867, and 
the restoration to power of the 
lyiberal Party, came the dawn 
of prosperity to Old Mexico. 
Capitalists, professionals, tour- 
ists, philanthropists, and ad- 
venturers, soon found their 
way to the far-famed land 
where the great Montezuma 
had cast gold into huge wheels 
to be given as souvenirs to allay the malice of his 
enemies. 

Among those who came to the City of Mexico 
were people of every religious creed, and of no creed; 
but their common antipathy for the church of the 
country led them to establish a non-sectarian church, 
which became known as the Undenominational 
Church of the Saints. 

During the period of its infancy and poverty, 
the society held religious services in a hired room 
north of the Alameda; but, finally outgrowing the 
limits of this place, the west wing of the beautiful 
church of San Francisco was fitted up for the use of 
the Saints. 

46 



The dull stone floors, worn smooth by the feet 
and knees of priest and monk, prince and pauper, 
gave way to beautiful mosaics in many colored mar- 
bles. Crucifixes, catafalques, saints, virgins, and 
Sangre de Christos, all, were banished. The walls 
and ceilings took on a soft gray tone, and were en- 
riched by graceful frescoes. The confessionals were 
converted into ladders by which the poor might 
mount to the gallery, while comfortable pews below 
invited those who could pay the rent. 

Every appointment of the church was grand, 
and there were added unto the congregation, daily, 
such as desired to identify themselves with the most 
distinguished and influential English-speaking people 
of the city. 

The classes in Sunday-school were taught by 
young men, young girls, old girls, and whosoever 
would consent to teach, without respect to previous 
history, or servitude in vocations quite antagonistic 
to the Golden Rule. 

When it was proposed to exchange their hum- 
ble quarters for the expensive and ostentatious 
Church of San Francisco, a few conservative men 
strongly opposed it. Prominent among these was 
Pleasant Barclay, a wealthy Quaker, who, at 
thought of leaving the sacred place that had so long 
sheltered their exiled hearts, was plunged into the 
depths of foreboding. He spoke touchingly of the 
benefits of simplicity, and the dangers of vanity, and 
at the conclusion of his appeal, he fell upon his 

^7 



knees, and prayed as if he were speaking face to 
face with God. He implored that the lyord would 
continue to hold the dear people in the hollow of 
his hand, and keep their hearts steady and true. 
In the midst of his petition he burst into tears, but, 
recovering his voice, he continued: ** Heavenly 
Father, save us from pride; save us from worldli- 
ness; from envy, from injustice, from selfishness 
and hardness, save us! God of the pure in heart, 
save us from hypocrisy!'' 

The people were deeply affected, for Pleasant 
Barclay was a very influential and wealthy man. 

Notwithstanding their fears, this devout Quaker 
and his wife Ruth, went with the Saints to the new 
place of worship; their daughter Patience, who was 
as the apple of their eye, pined for the society of 
the young people of the Undenominational Church 
of the Saints. 

Having been a stranger to the hollow inconsis- 
tencies of society until her character was formed, 
and having inherited the sterling qualities of sev- 
eral generations of Barclays and Foxes, who had 
battled for right principles, and had considered man's 
duty to man of prior importance to man's duty to 
God, Patience Barclay had developed noble mental 
and moral powers, of which, however, she was un- 
conscious; neither did she realize that she was 
as beautiful as the fair creature that smiled at the 
reflection of her own lovliness in the limped streams 
of Eden. 

^8 



In all her young life, this Quaker maiden had 
never attended any religious service, save that of the 
Friends in her native New Jersey village; conse- 
quently her mind was unprejudiced, and her faith 
in professing Christians was strong and beautiful. 
She was charmed with the theoretical teachings of 
the Undenominational Church of the Saints. Often 
as she sat in her pew, her face would light ap with 
a peculiar sweetness, as memory pictured the little 
church of her childhood. How glad were the songs 
of the birds in the trees! What marvelous pictures 
of azure sky, fleecy cloud, and flowering tree were 
framed by window case and open door! What 
heavenly thoughts had entered her young heart, 
while waiting for the moving spirit ! 

As the soul of Patience Barclay expanded, and 
reached out for some holy mission to fill, the desires 
of certain young men enlarged and reached out to- 
ward her. Foremost among these was the superin- 
tendent of the Sunda^^-school, Julius Turner, who 
had deftly managed his heart-strings so as to lead in 
the path of wealth and beauty. Although no longer 
young, the dexterity — acquired by practice — with 
which he conducted the affairs of the heart, gave 
him great advantage over the inexperienced youths, 
who blushed at the maiden's every glance or smile. 

Julius Turner had steadily risen in the oflBces 
of the church, until he had become a model for the 
young men, a favorite with the young women, an 
Inspiration to the little children, and a saint in the 

49 




estimation of all. How fitting that such a spiritual 

giant should have for a helpmate 
Patience Barclay, the charming 
heiress! And so thought Julius 
himself. 

After months of judicious 
courting, the heart of Julius was 
wild with joy to see the color in 
the maiden's cheeks deepen and 
spread under his ardent gaze, 
and to see the white lids droop 
over the lovely eyes, as if to hide 
a secret that lurked in their 
dreamy depths. A new passion had crept into the 
gentle heart of Patience, and it kept singing, 
** Julius, Julius!^' until the radiant beauty of her 
face became almost angelic, under the spell of love. 
How her heart outran her footsteps as she wended 
her way along the norrow streets on Sabbath morn- 
ings, — so eager she was to see Julius at the church 
door ! 

Seeing by the maiden's sweet ways that he had 
found favor in her sight, how natural it was for 
Julius to confide to her his love as they plucked the 
wild flowers in her father's huerta! How he ad- 
mired Pleasant Barclay's palatial home, set in the 
midst of an extensive wooded park on a hillside in 
Tacubaya! How gay were the spreading fig trees, 
the laden pomegranates, the orange groves, the 
clumps of rhododendrums! How beautiful were 

50 



the fountains, vines, and shady paths on every hand; 
and the rustic bridge, with its festoons of running 
roses and traiUng sprays of clematis that kissed the 
cool lips of the chattering rill beneath ! How thrice 
blessed, thought Julius, was the lofty, spiked stone 
wall that shut out the world in general, and other 
lovers in particular, and shut in himself, amid all 
this quiet beauty, — even amid these unmistakable 
indications of wealth! 

Seeing their daughter's growing attachment 
for Julius Turner, Pleasant and Ruth Barcay felt 
moved to investigate the young man's antecedents, 
even his character, private and public. They found 
that he was a tyrant to those under him, a syco- 
phant to those above, a grinder of the poor, a self- 
seeking, sly man, one who would strike in the dark, 
and, to promote his own worldly interests, would 
seek preferment even in the house of God ! 

The}'- believed that whatsoever a man soweth, 
that shall he also reap; and they were not willing 
that Patience, nay. even her little children, should 
be doomed to assist a low-principled man in reaping 
the merciless whirlwind. 

One day during a very serious conversation 
regarding the future welfare of their daughter, 
Pleasant said, 

''Ruth, I would willingly see all our wealth 
removed and swept into the sea, rather than have 
the life of^our child despoiled of its peace and beauty; 
but we must proceed wisely, lest we blight the 

5^ 



flower in removing the canker. When our high- 
principled daughter sees for herself that the man 
is ignoble, she will give him up of her own accord." 

**I agree with thee, Pleasant, and I would sug- 
gest a plan for unmasking Julius Turner in the 
presence of Patience. ' ' 

Further conversation on the subject was inter- 
rupted, for, over the rustic bridge, and up the daisy- 
strewn path came Patience with sprightly step and 
eager eye. Joining her parents on the veranda, 
she stooped and put her velvet cheek to her father ^s 
lips, and gently stroked his hair, murmuring, ''Dear 
father!" 

* 'Thou spotless one! my daughter! God shel- 
ter thee from every snare that lieth in wait!" 

Kneeling, and hiding her face in the soft folds 
of her mother's gray dress, the maiden said, 

''Mother, Julius Turner is coming to speak to 
thee and father. ' ' 

The Book of Psalms slipped to the polished 
marble floor, and Ruth gently caressed the curls that 
lay like twists of sunshine on her lap. 

"Daughter, doth Julius Turner love thee for 
thine own true self ?" 

"O mother, never was maiden loved as I!" 

"Patience, heart of my heart! wouldst thou 
wish to marry this man if thou wert convinced that 
he is unprincipled?" 

"Never! But, mother, it is his nobleness of 

5^ 



character and devotion to religion that have won 
tny heart 1" 



>< >< 



It was Easter Sunday. The Saints, with 
bowed heads, were in their pews. The Reverend 
Mr. Puff sat upon the richly upholstered pulpit sofa. 
He had just concluded an eloquent discourse on 
Brotherly Love, from the text, ' 'If a man love not 
his brother, whom he hath seen, how can he love God, 
whom he hath not seenV 

The subdued light, sifting through the stained 
glass windows and the sweet fragrance of Easter 
flowers added charm to the solemnity of the scene; 
while the communion table, with brightest silver and 
snowiest linen, added awe. 

The choir in the loft above the pulpit, sat rev- 
erently silent. But the great organ trembled, and 
wept, and exulted in rhythmic whispers, like the 
melody of a dream. Save the muffled sob of the 
music and the occasional creaking of the ladders, or 
the rustle of a silk gown, there was not a sound to 
break the holy stillness. 

Suddenly the eloquent silence was threatened 
by the unwelcome presence of a hump-backed, meanly 
dressed old man, who advanced to the middle of the 
church and stood, looking wistfully at an empty 
seat. 

Not recognizing in the intruder, a brother whom 
he had seen, and fearing that his presence might be a 

53 



menace to the calm, spiritual frame of mind, so con- 
ducive to the worthy partaking of the Lord's sacra- 
ment, the head usher, Julius Turner, with velvet 
step approached, and, jerking his thumb over his 
shoulder in the direction of the gallery, said, 

'*01d fellow, there is no room here for such as 
you; mount the ladder!'* 

At this moment Patience Barclay raised her 
head, for her quick ear had caught the cruel words. 
Her pitying eye rested upon the bent form, and in a 
moment she was at the old man's side, and with 
gentle persuasion led him to her own pew. 

As for the head usher, he was filled with con- 
sternation and apprehension, lest this unguarded 
act of his should affect the future ownership of 
Pleasant Barclay's vast estates. At the close of the 
service he walked humbly by the side of Patience, 
down the long marble pavement, between the beds 
of daisies and forget-me-nots; but the maiden, with 
face averted, preserved an ominous silence. As her 
lover waited, hoping to get one look into his sweet 
heart's eyes, the hump-backed old man brushed by 
him and entered the carriage, unbidden. 

Even the gentle Patience seemed annoyed by 
the intrusion, but Ruth showed no sign of surprise 
or displeasure. 

As the head usher was about to drag the un- 
welcome guest from his seat, the old man, in a 
twinkling, removed his beard, goggles, hat, and 
wig. 

54- 



^^My father P'' cried Patience. 

Julius turned to speak, — his tongue had lost 
its cunning. 

With eyes of lightning and voice of thunder, 
Pleasant Barclay exclaimed: 

^^ Young man^ the U7imasking is mutual! GoP' 

Marguerite Zearing. 




5-5- 



a 



[oVel l/{i]9t Js It? 

LITTLE boy with bright brown eyes, 
And hair of the raven's hue, 

Sported in glee with a fair, sweet child, 
With her eyes of azure blue. 



A vision of beauty, to him she seemed. 

Though she teased him sorely, too; 
But still he followed, wherever she led, 

So brave, devoted, and true. 

"Stop, girl!" he cried, **in your merry glee, 

Till I whisper a word in your ear, 
Why do you 'witch and lead me thus. 

Tell me what Love is, my dear. ' ' 

**What is the charm you cast about me, — 

You little frolicsome elf! — 
That I'm ever seeking to frolic with you. 

And love you, in spite of myself? 

**Do stop your laughter and fun, Blise! 

You sing and dance, as a linnet! 
Come sit by my side, while I talk of our love, 

And ask you the secret that's in it." 

She came to him with her bright, dancing eyes 
Flashing back to him beauty and joy, 

And he told her all that was in his heart, 
That he was her "true lover" boy. 

"Elise! you're as fleet as a bird on the wing, 

So happy, so wild, and gay. 
You're sweet as a rose, or a violet, blue. 

That blossoms along our way. 

56 



*'You seem as the sunshine, glad and bright, 

Which conies to us after the rain, 
Sorrow can't stay where you are, my dear. 

For you'll brighten and cheer all again." 

**And is it Love that makes us so gay?" 

Said the little one, happy and free; 
**Then let's dance and sport all the long summer day, 

I'm so happy that you love me!" 

A handsome youth, with a thoughtful brow, 

Held a maiden, sweet by the hand, 
As they stood where the brook and the river meet, 

In the pure, happy young-lover land. 

"What is Love?" asked he, with a piercing gaze. 

As he looked in her soft, blue eye; 
**Is it beauty, or grace, or a charm of soul? 

Is it almost a pain or a sigh?" 

**I've studied it long, but it ever eludes 
My most earnest and hopeful thought; 

I cannot tell what its texture is, 
E'en when most with happiness fraught. 

"Its warp must be made of the golden threads 

Of joy and of pleasure, I know, 
Yet into its woof is woven some stuff, 

Which thrills me and pains me so. 

* 'There's joy and happiness every hour, 

As long as with me you can stay. 
But pain and anguish creep into my heart, 

Lest the angels will steal you away." 

*'I cannot define it, I'm sure," she said, 

**But such thoughts do not trouble my brain, 

I only know 'tis so sweet to be loved, 
So tell it to me again." 

57 



So talked these babes, and this 3'outhful pair, 

Of this wonderful problem of ours, 
Of that little word, so often heard, 

Morning, noon, and in moonlit bowers. 

But the answer comes not; they ask in vain, 

Forever it from them hides. 
There's more to be learned in the passing of years, 

With their rolling and restless tides. 

The husband and wife, in the bright early dawn 

Of pure wedded love so true. 
Thought they knew it all, but they often found 

It a vision which quickly flew. 

Some say that I^ove is but for a day, 

For a week, or a month, or a year. 
Ah! the love that's a real love, will stay 

With its owners, never fear! 

True Love is so patient, forgetful of self, 
Suffers long, and will always be kind, 

'Tis never found in the lower plane. 
But the God ward part of the mind. 

'Tis not on the sunrise slopes of life's hill, 
That we learn of its greatest behests, 

Nor even on top, where the broadest glow 
Of the golden noon sunshine rests. 

But the sundown steeps of the hill of life 
Are the spots which give us the test. 

When heads are silvering at the top. 
Then, true love is at its best. 

The sorrows of life, as the blasts of the wind, 

Drive its roots more deeply still. 
As the massive ones of the giant oak. 

On the storm-beat sides of the hill. 

58 



No fear, then, nor doubts are woven in 

This magical web of love, 
For trust, and confidence supreme, 

Brood o'er, as the wings of a dove. 

As the days pass along, the golden warp, 

With its woof, is both strengthened and tried, 

From the bright young, sunny and happy hours. 
When first called * 'husband and bride." 

Even such, cannot answer my query bold, 

For its mystery, mystery still, 
And will be, though they live with each other on 

To the very foot of the hill. 

For earth has no language wc know of now. 

To describe this beautiful love. 
Which tested, proven, then stronger has grown, 

'Till it seems like the Father's above. 

**So, darling! fold me close to your heart. 
And call me your grey -haired bride, 

And I'll try to answer you ''What Love is" 
When we've crossed to the "other side." 

Amanda Kerr Lewis. 




59 



Wild powers of%(iu)U)tr. 



m 



t^ ^* ^* 

IlyD flowers of summer — how gay thou art! 
Much brighter than early flowers of spring 
Courage thou givest the fainting heart, 

When thou thy bright blossoms about us fling, 



The drought to thee, hath no alarms! 

Thou dreadest not the summer's sun! 
Throughout them all, thou spread 'st thy charms. 

Unfolding thy petals, one by one. 

The dusty highway, the valley green. 
The prairies, broad and boundless waste, 

The mountain top and the meadow's sheen. 
Are by thy varied blossoms graced. 

The golden rod, and the lily wild, 

The daisy white, and with golden hue, 

The purple astor, and the columbine, 

All bloom beneath the heavens' own blue. 

On railroad car, or on steamer's deck, 

In tracing road, or winding bend. 
Thy gorgeous blossoms nodding beck. 

And to the landscape, beauties lend. 

Oh! who can see these flowers wild. 

In torrid heat of summer time. 
But wishes once more to be a child 

And wander o'er the meadow, the mountain climb 

To pluck the flowers of gorgeous hue, 

And dream of when at eventide. 
We brought our treasures, heavy with dew. 

To our gentle and loving mother's side. 

60 



And heard her voice so soft and mild, 

As in her hands the blossoms placed, 
With loving thanks to her dear child, 

For centre table brightly graced. 

But youthful days come back no more — 
We've reached the golden summer time, 

And soon our autumn's harvest store, 

Shall be garnered up for the "Happy Clime." 

JUI.IA E. Wansky. 




6i 



Tffe locarnstioi). 



OT 



A Story of the i6th Century, 

HBRK gentle winding Arno westward turns to seek 
the sea, 
Florence sits the acknowledge queen of all fair 
Italy 

Renowned in works of art, a genius shrine, to which all 
give 

Homage; though dead the authors, they in their work sim- 
niortal live. 

Here a noted sculptor dwelt, though his name's forgotten 
now, 

His works remain, these more important, than by whom or 
how, 

They into being came, great deeds, result of thought live on; 

Our human hands are only instruments, these, soon are 
gone. 

The great statue is but the reflex from the sculptor's soul. 

Mind, thought, God, all one, the source whence the univer- 
sal whole. 

Frugal, he had acquired an ample store of goods and lands, 

Upright, industrious, of fertile brain and skillful hands, 

And blessed with wife and children, home and friends, and 
a good name, 

It seemed he should not want for more; but lo! a tempter 
came, 

And whispered, ^^Fame, win Fame! Times are ripe, the 
ages dark are past, 

The Renaissance begun, all powers in one direction cast. 

And fashion what shall be the world's most famous master- 
piece!" 

As in fair Eden, man heard and yielded, so now, Release 

62 



He straightway took from all perplexing cares and said, 

''I will!'' 
When reinforced by application and inherent skill, 
There's much in those little words, constant effort well 

applied. 
Is genius by another name, and this ne'er can be denied. 
Fame, success, are not attained by a single act or bound, 
He that succeeds must climb the toilsome ladder round by 

round; 
Each step that's ta'en is work; there is no other way to rise; 
By sculptor's chisel, painter's brush, or author's pen, the 

prize 
Is always at the very top, if lofty be your aim; 
He that aims not lofty, is not worthy of lasting fame. 
A massive block of marble before him lay, shapeless then, 
From which he must evolve a matchless form admired of 

men; 
Chip, click! the work began at break of day at set of sun, 
He only ceased, more eager then, than when the day begun. 
Chip, click, chip, click, day after day, time as it sped away 
He noted not, to eat and sleep he little cared, to pray 
He took not time, in labor so absorbed; full well he knew 
That with each click and blow, the statue still more shapely 

grew. 
Meantime, while he chipped, and carved, and shaped, his 

wife neglected. 
Sadly pined, sickened, died; his children left unprotected, 
Drifted away and were lost in the maelstrom whirl of life; 
Quondam friends looked at him askance, and said, "He's 

mad!" But rife 
Was the story of his marvelous work of mind and skill. 
As they whispered, praised, and slandered, as idlers ever 

will. 
At last after days, weeks, months lengthened into years; 

complete 
The statue was from classic head to sole of shapely feet; 

63 



'Twas, as it stood there under the moon's soft light and sil- 
very gleam, 
Beautiful as a maiden's vision, or an angel's dream. 
In each curve so graceful, so true and perfect in each line, 
Wer't not made by human hands, one might think it were 

divine; 
An artist passing, surprised, exclaimed, with uncovered 

head, 
**Ye Gods! is this a living creature?" listening then, he 

said: 
*'Aye, thou hast eyes, mouth, ears, yet seeeth, speaketh, 

heareth not, 
**Pray what has he who bro't thee here and fashioned thee, 

forgot ? 
Hadst thou it, thou couldst hear, and speak, and see, and 

breathe, and live. 
**Hadstheto thee that priceless boon, that peerless thing 

to give, 
Then men would worship thee, obey thy every beck and 

nod, 
Ah! that peerless, priceless thing is the living breath of 

God." 
At the feet of the statue the exhausted sculptor lay, 
On the completion of his work his strength had fled away ; 
He slept, he dreamed of home on Arnos' banks, beneath the 

trees. 
Of a true, loving, faithful, trusting wife, while at his knees 
His children played; then he heard a voice-demon, wind or 

ghost: 
*'You have won and you have lost; is the bauble worth the 

cost?" 
Awakened, troubled by the dream, in which as in a glass, 
He saw himself moaning, * 'Accursed! am I, alas! alas!" 
A flood of light outlined a form, "His masterpiece," he 

said, 
* 'Child of my brain, my only child, all others having fled; 

64. 



And fashioned by my hands thro' long and weary hours, in 

you 
Are centered all my hopes, and joys, and happiness, for 

you 
I sacrificed wife, children, home friends, yet I'd give still 

more; 
In me it is accursed, in you they all would it adore; 
Couldst thou accept, to thee I'd give my life, that thou 

might live. 
In all thy loveliness, taste all that health and beauty give. 
When life is in its spring; for could a heart within thee 

throb 
And force through all thy form the living tide of life, and 

rob 
Cold marble of its lifelessness; or could a radiant smile 
And crimson blush overcome thy face and nature reconcile; 
Couldst thou hear and speak, see and feel, and be a sentient 

thing, 
And into beauteous life, with all its thrilling pleasures, 

spring. 
Then I'd give thee mine." He ceased; the soul then bid 

his clay farewell. 
And straightway sought a fairer tenement in which to dwell. 
Then suddenly, by some occult power, all unknown to man, 
Through all the classic marble form a living tremor ran, 
A crimson flood through all the veinous rivers rush, a heart 
Within began to throb, coldness gave way to warmth, apart 
The e^'Clids ope'd, lips moved as though to speak, then 

hands and feet. 
To fulfill life's harmony. Incarnation was complete. 
Thus what had been a shapeless block of stone, by man's 

control. 
In wondrous beauty grew, through God became a living 

soul. 
This story's all a myth, a dream, and roughly drawn the 

scene, 

65 



Yet may not we from it some thoughtful, useful lessons 

glean ? 
Fleeting fame lies at the end of a long and toilsome way, 
To attain, ponder well the cost, then query, will it pay ? 
Riches, honor, power and name, hard to win, not hard to 

lose, 
Weigh them all 'gainst home, righteousness and love, then 

wisely choose. 

• Gkorgk W. Cox. 




66 



^tepfien ]^ HoOgl^s. 



^ 



aFTER any great conflict it is the custom for 
those who have taken no part in it to criti- 
cise the manner in which affairs have been 
conducted. They do not stop with the minor de- 
tails but theorize and point out how the plan of a 
whole campaign should have been executed. Men 
who served as leaders were lacking in judgment, or 
were not honest in their convictions. This is the 
frame of mind in which the American people are 
today. They charge the leaders in the late war with 
being inhuman, and neglectful of the lives and 
comfort of the men under them. They fail to ap- 
preciate that these are not incidents which belong 
alone to our war with Spain. 

From history we learn that such incidents be- 
long to all our wars. We need only to recall the 
intense suffering at Valley Forge, the blood-stained 
tracks on the snow, when the facts come to our 
minds that bales and bales of shoes were awaiting 
transportation to the army. No one now thinks of 
charging neglect or inhumanity to our patriotic 
forefathers. Time has given us the proper perspec- 
tive by which to judge men and events. A genera- 
tion at least must elapse before we are qualified to 
pass an unbiased judgment. Thus the events of 
today will be judged more impartially by the next 
generation. We are only now reaching the point 

67 



where we have the proper perspective to pass upon 
the events of the Civil War. It is with justice that 
the South has objected to the histories of the 
United States written for the public schools. 

When the originator of the doctrine of Squat- 
ter Sovereignty returned to his home in Illinois, 
after his great battle in Congress, no man, perhaps, 
was more thoroughly hated than he. Even today, 
some of our historians have failed to correct the 
impression that Stephen A. Douglas was a dema- 
gogue and was seeking his own personal advance- 
ment. These writers were perhaps too near the 
time of which they wrote to get the proper view of 
Douglas. The shadows and lights of his character 
were not grasped and put in his picture. Notice a 
few of the side lights in the character of this re- 
markable man. He believed in a higher education, 
and in a sense may be called the founder of the 
Chicago University. Not a rich man, yet he desired 
to establish a college in Chicago. He owned part 
of the land on the west side of Cottage Grove Ave. , 
between Thirty-third and Thirty-fifth streets. He 
offered some of this land to the Presbyterian church, 
if they would erect a building, and establish a 
university. The suggestion not meeting with favor, 
he made the same proposal to the Baptists, who ac- 
cepted and undertook the task. The task finally 
became so great that it was necessary to accept the 
advice of J. D. Rockefellow, to sell the old site, and 
go out farther, and st art anew. 

68 



The former site of the Chicago University is 
doubly historical, because it was on part of the same 
land that Camp Douglas was situated during the 
rebellion. After the capture of Island No. 10, the 
government sent ten thousand prisoners to Chicago. 
Temporary barracks were constructed and called 
Camp Douglas. At first, this prison had no floor, 
and a great many prisoners escaped by tunneling 
out. 

Of the first ten thousand sent here about half 
of them died during the winter. The quarters 
were very poor and the prisoners, accustomed to the 
weather of the South, could not endure the rigor- 
ous climate, and many died, mostly from pneumonia. 
They were buried in trenches near the camp. When 
spring opened, and the prisoners were still kept 
here, and in fact more were sent, the authorities 
then set about the removal of the bodies, and the 
rearrangement of sanitary affairs. Over six thous- 
and bodies were exhumed and buried in Wood 
Lawn. Over thirty thousand were confined at 
different times in this prison. 

Not far from here, on Thirty- first street and 
lake front, stands the Douglas Monument. It is 
beautifully located. The figure of Douglas faces 
the East and commands a view of the beautiful ex- 
panse of waters. It is turned toward the East, 
possibly, because it was in the halls of Congress 
that he won great fame and honor. It is frequently 
said that the people around a man's home are the 

69 



last to appreciate his worth, and do him honor. 
This was certainly true of Douglas. 

Upon his return from Congress, after his great 
fight for Squatter Sovereignty, the people were so 
exasperated over the stand he had taken, that when 
he appeared in Chicago to speak they refused to 
hear him. He was hissed and hooted, so that it 
was impossible for him to be heard. Later on he 
was invited to speak before the State Legislature at 
Springfield, and here, for the first time, he was ac- 
corded a chance to be heard, and explain his posi- 
tion. Chicago was justly ashamed of the treatment 
she had given him, and wished to atone somewhat 
by again inviting him to speak in the city. He was 
not well, and should not have accepted the invita- 
tion, but he felt that he was entirely misunderstood 
in Chicago, and desired to set himself right before 
his people. He spoke, and a few days after he was 
taken worse and died. 

The base of the monument has four figures, 
one on each corner. The one on the Northeast rep- 
resents Illinois. The great State now appreciates 
the true worth of this noble character, one of the 
greatest of her sons. The figure South of that is 
Justice. Surely this man stood for justice. We 
may not agree with him in regard to the docrine of 
Squatter Sovereignty, yet many men of the time 
did, and thought he had struck the right solution 
for the great question before the people. The aboli- 
tionist, the slave-holder, and the slave were all to be 

70 



treated with fairness. The figure West of Justice 
is History, while that on the remaining corner rep- 
resents Eloquence. Douglas surely made History. 

His achievements will ever be a part of the 
history of this country, and his eloquence the envy 
of every statesman. Illinois, Justice, History and 
Eloquence — very fitting figures to adorn the monu- 
ment of a great son of Illinois. 

The inscription is a beautiful thought to be 
handed down to posterity. ''Tell my children to 
obey the laws, and uphold the constitution." What 
grander sentiment could be expressed by a loyal son 
of America! He expressed the same idea in his 
speech at Raleigh during the campaign. He said, 
' 'I am ready to put the cord to the neck of anyone who 
would dissolve the Union.'' The idea was certainly 
carried out by him in his actions after the election 
of Lincoln. He stood firmly by Lincoln and sup- 
ported the Union, though he thereby alienated many 
of his former friends, and was charged by them 
with desertion and the desire to court favor with the 
rising tide, 

A true perspective will reveal Douglas as if he 
stood forth in noon-day light, bright in his loyalty 
to the Union, and with much shortened shadows. 

Chari^es W. B1GE1.OW. 

^Thoughts suggested upon visiting the points men- 
tioned, and reading criticisms upon the leaders in war with 
Spain. 

71 



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